Life Is for People Who Have Time to Give a Shit
by fan-nerd
Summary: You keep telling yourself that you have control with the drugs, that you don't need them, and eventually, you tell yourself that so convincingly that you believe it.


a/n: It's five in the morning and I can't sleep because I hecked up and drank too many energy drinks yesterday. This is the product of an au idea that I had and discussed with a friend on tumblr, and since my heart won't stop beating for long enough to let me rest, I decided to pound this thing out. Pardon if there's any terrible grammar! I will do my best to fix it up when I'm not so delirious. Enjoy!

* * *

_**Life Is for People Who Have Time to Give a Shit.**_

—_fan-nerd_

* * *

You are in _control_.

Your breath is weighty, your legs feel jaunty, and your gray eyes are rolling around restlessly in their sockets. As you push the hammer of the syringe down, one fucking millimeter at a time, you exhale slowly, reminding yourself that if you fuck this up, you will never, ever, _ever_ live it down. If you overdose, your friends are not gonna goddamn rush to your aid again, because that'll make, _what_, the fourth time this month?

It's _not_ a problem, and you don't _need_ their bitching tonight. What you _need_ is a hit. You need it _urgently_, and nothing in this fucking world is gonna keep you from getting it.

Rewind. The hit sinks in and your eyelids fall and you _remember_ how this shit begins.

You start off soft, looking for a way to mellow out, so you give weed a try. _Grass_, _skunk, ashes_, whatever the fuck. It's not good enough, and you don't really like feeling the weight of that particular drug pumping through your veins. So, you move on.

You want to feel _good_. Somebody says _pop a molly_. Why the hell not, you figure. That shit, you quickly discover, is for the birds. You're grumpy and anxious, and even though you get a little energy high, there's nothing worth feeling like you're gonna jump out of your fucking skin at every little thing. You were skittish before that shit, and you don't need _that_ to make things worse.

A _rush_, you tell the street dealers that you are decidedly _not_ regularly in contact with. _I want a rush_.

_Purest snow you'll get around these parts; love it or your money back guaranteed_, one guy says. You don't believe him and you don't expect your money back, but you decide to try it anyways. It's a reminder that you can _handle_ this.

So, you snort it. _Sniff, sneeze, shit!_ That jacks you up to ten. Your heart pounds and your limbs tremble. You can't keep down a bite of fucking anything, and for months after that, you decide that you maybe like this.

You're not admitting that you're an addict, per se, but you _do_ know that this fix will only last for _so_ long.

You're juggling your life responsibilities this whole time like a goddamn adult. School's always been a joke, your fuckfriend from ages ago thinks you're a riot while you're high as all shit, and work is a task of glorious chaos that you can't escape because it pays you twenty an hour for doing jack-all, and if you have to work there full-time between everything else and sacrifice having a social life, you don't give a damn because you still have bags of little white powder waiting for you beneath your bed.

Lulling back to the present, you stumble out of your unfamiliar position, distantly realizing that you have poor control over your body. Not a problem. You've been here before. Patience is the key. Anything can be covered up with enough dickish confidence, control, and _patience_. Even your 'not-a-problem' with drugs.

See, the thing is, after the other stuff you've tried, you feel that you've moved onto the _real_ stuff now, because there's some sort of mental hierarchy of drugs to you. You've got syringes, and you didn't even have to look a damn bit suspicious when you bought them because you're a medical student, aren't you, and you can buy the damn things in bulk on your student-supply credit card, and everyone's just going to nod their head and say _good for you, sticking to the program and finishing up your degree_, and you'll just laugh and laugh, horribly amused by how naïve people are. _Sure, thank you, _you'll smile and charm your way through any lady, gentleman, or agendered person that you have to, if it'll make an impression. _I can use all the support I can get._

You promise yourself, after this, that's it. You can quit any time you want, right? Right. You're in _control_. That's why your money's slipping away, and sex with Kid is more _fun_ and you're having a good time, because the heroin is just an arms-length away _if_ you need it – not _when_. Well. That was the case _before_ you were on the verge of overdosing twice. Maybe three times. If you fuck up tonight, it'll make four times. In one month.

No problem.

After about thirty minutes, the world is just a better place. You're convinced you can do anything. Your heart is thumping, but your breathing is slow. All according to plan.

You think to yourself, _I'll drive to Eustass's house and surprise him_. The redhead would like that, coming home to a bed where you're already waiting for him. You don't even _like_ sex, really, but you enjoy _using _Kid, and the way to Kid's heart is through his pants. You get a lot of your drugs through connections with Kid, have wheedled him out of money, tattoos, and more, and even though Kid doesn't trust you as far as he can throw you, he does trust in your ability to give him a good time, and so for some reason, you, the-probably-asexual, and Kid, the-shitty-fuck-partner, end up doing the two-way tango on a regular basis. It's a business agreement.

You get in the car and giggle, horrifically entranced with the car as a machine. Technology is amazing. _The inner workings of cars_, which Eustass praises every damn time you're together, _are like the insides of bodies,_ he says, which makes you pay attention. _It's like the science of the human body system, except it's made up with metals and oils and electricity instead of blood and bones and nerves._

You know you shouldn't be driving under the influence, so you merely rest. You let the true high hit you for about an hour, sitting in your car with energy buzzing underneath your skin. You didn't even take enough to feel crazy, so once your vision stops swimming, you turn the key in the ignition and try your best to keep your car in between the dashed white lines.

Kid's place is about an hour away from yours on the highway – totally doable. Well, that's what you think until a lurching bout of nausea hits you and you swerve in your lane. Alarmed by the vomit that is starting to involuntarily trickle down your chin, you pull over to properly address this issue and startle yourself in your state. There's a kid crying on the roadside, and you're in no shape to use reason, so your brain jumps to the conclusion that you've hit someone as you stumble out of your vehicle—_oh god I fucked up, I fucked up so bad_—and you start puking at rapid speed, disgusted with yourself.

The kid comes over to you, but his words are rushing at you at break-neck speed and you absolutely cannot keep up with a single fucking thing he's said. You close your eyes after another round of heaving, and when you open them next, wildly tossing on the gravel and leaping up, clutching your chest, you see the tear-streaked face of an adolescent.

"Hey…" Thank god for your working prefrontal cortex – this kid looks familiar. "Are you alright?"

Trying to steady yourself and keep your eyes from going out of focus, you open your nasty-feeling mouth to reply. "_Yessh_." You clutch your head and try again. "Did I…are _you_ okay?"

Stranger kid who is probably a teenager blinks dark, puffy eyes at you, trying to sort out what you mean. "Not…really."

You feel sick again. "Oh. I'm sorry."

He sniffles and rubs at his reddened nose. "You don't have anything to apologize for." Relief washes through your body, but it's not enough that he's _forgiven_ you – you need to know that you're blameless. After another moment, the kid proves himself intuitive. "You didn't hit me, if that's what you mean."

"Oh," you really do exhale then. Your gray eyes roam the landscape and see what the kid had been looking at, and you grimace. "I'm sorry anyways."

Stranger kid scowls. "_You_ don't have anything to apologize for—I already said that. Now stop saying 'sorry' or you'll make me mad." Huffing and changing positions from crouching on his haunches, stranger kid quirks his head at you. "Do you need me to call an ambulance? I was in the middle of dialing when you—"

"_No_," you assert, and the kid doesn't seem particularly alarmed by your reluctance to get medical assistance. "I'm _fine_."

"Mister," the kid drawls, furrowing his brows, "you almost crashed your car into a tree, scrambled out of it like a crazy person, puked your guts out, and you still look like a rabid dog. That doesn't sound like _fine_ to me."

"I _said_," you raise your voice just a little bit, knowing your baritone can become very intimidating when you try. "That I'm _fine_."

Stranger kid glares at you. After a moment, he hauls you over his shoulder, despite your protests and sudden, inevitable loss of time and space. He plops you back down, and you rearrange your thoughts so your eyes are focused despite your nausea. You see what you saw in your glance before, but it's up close and personal now. It's a memorial for someone who died on the road here, a grave-marker with garlands of flowers surrounding it. "I know when someone's not _fine_." The kid plops down in front of you after he apparently feels like you've seen enough of this resting place for someone recently departed. Heaving a sigh, he casts a heavy, watery glance at you. "I know because _I've_ probably said the same thing a thousand times, and I'm as far from _fine_ as anybody can be."

For whatever reason, you look at the kid, find some distant echo of yourself in him, and you cannot. Stop. Laughing. He pouts as you wipe the tears from your eyes. Maybe you're still a little out of it, but strings of useless words flow from your mouth like a confessional, and the kid just listens patiently.

You never do make it Kid's place, but you do exchange numbers with Luffy, who is maybe handling his problems in a much better way than you.

/ /

You and Luffy chat with each other sometimes. He tells you funny stories about his friends, but the only ones who stick out to you are a guy who takes _kendo_ and a kid who wants to be a doctor, and you think to yourself,_ I used to just be a nice kid with dreams, too,_ but thinking about _your_ childhood gives you acid reflux so you reach for the one crutch you can always depend on – drugs.

Well, you _could_. Theoretically. But Luffy keeps _bothering_ you, goddamn it. Right when you're about to click the syringe with your nails to tap any loose air bubbles out of it and clench a fist in your right hand, the little fucker _calls_, rambling about this and that and giving you a pounding headache that will not go away.

You're so fucking _done_ with this kid ruining your evening plans, but you can't even control your frustration with his constant interruptions, so you shout, _if you're gonna keep calling me all the damn time, you might as well just come over_, and the little shit just says, _well, give me your address_.

This. _This_ is how you end up with no free time to do _anything_ else, because Monkey D. Luffy has decided to make it his fucking mission in life to _fuck_ with you. You can't even buy more drugs to replenish your current stash, because when you're done with work, he's _waiting_ for you on your doorstep like an eager hound dog. You can't get in touch with Kid because he's _blowing up your phone_ with texts and voice mails and all sorts of communications that are driving you insane.

Fuck Luffy. _Fuck_ Luffy! He's absolutely, positively ruining _everything_ in your life, and all you need is some peace and quiet and _control!_

/ /

It's been three weeks that you've been running around without a break, preoccupied with something that is thin and brunette and _annoying_, and for once, everything is silent. It's enough to make you turn to religion. You're _so_ exhausted, so happy for some peace and quiet and fucking relaxation that you sleep.

When you wake up in the morning, you are disturbed. You _slept_. Not only that, you slept _without_ the help of drugs, for like, _eight hours_. Wow. The last time you must've done that was in high school.

Your first instinct is to look for drugs in the house, but realization dawns on you that _there aren't any_. Your hand fumbles for your cell phone in a panic, thumb hovering over the touch-screen on _Eustass Kid_'s contact page before you stall.

You haven't called Kid in weeks. Literally _weeks_. You haven't snorted cocaine or pumped heroin or taken _E_, or anything else in _weeks_.

Suddenly, your head is as clear as daybreak in the mountains.

You had become reliant. Somehow, you kind of _knew_ that, but you'd convinced yourself that you were handling the problem responsibly. Now that everything's been out of your system for a few weeks since your supply's been cut off, it's plain as day how fucked you were before.

You close Kid's contact page and, alarmingly, jump to Luffy's. It's the first time _you've_ ever called him. "I have a problem with drugs," is the first thing you say, and you're _astounded_ because all Luffy says back to you is, _I know_.

/ /

Kid blows up your phone, sounding fucking pissed. You decide to ignore his calls on purpose. You immediately delete all of your old, illegal contacts, go to the cell phone store, change your number, and make a fresh start. Your apartment lease is up in a few weeks, so you won't even have the danger of that address anymore.

You decide to go to a councilor after you admit something in passing that you hadn't thought was deep on mention, but upon further introspection had been the root of your problems.

You'd started to let shit from the past fuck you up. Come to think of it, you'd started to plan when you could sleep with Eustass for favors right around Christmas time with the family two years ago.

Your adoptive father was a shit-head, and he'd branded his hatred and loathing for you from the time you were ten years old. You'd convinced yourself that you were stronger than him, and you would prove it, but instead, you'd run to drugs to try and wash the pain away until it didn't bother you any more. Luffy said that he knew a good therapist – he'd been to them after his brother died – and wished you the best.

Your therapist is the best thing to happen to you. He tells you to take on less hours at work, start to relax, start to really be organizational about your life. Get out with friends, drink in a _healthy_ environment, and integrate back into society, which is just about as difficult as it sounds.

Luckily (or maybe unluckily, who knows), you have Luffy, full of bright wonder and childish excitement, even if the pain and burn of his brother's death lurks behind his dark eyes from time to time.

Right around the time when you've finished moving, have been going to therapy for a couple months, and start trying to figure out how you get some exercise, you decide to give Luffy another call. Two outgoing calls to the bane of your existence within eight weeks? That's like a world record for you.

/ /

"Does your friend still do _kendo_?"

"Yeah, he does. Why?" He sneezes. You mechanically say _bless you_.

"I was thinking about getting back into it and I wanted to see if I could go someplace nearby. Thought it might be good if I knew somebody there."

"Okay! I'll call him and ask about it. Want me to forward you the information?"

"Yeah, that'd be good." After a pause where neither of you hang up, you clear your throat and continue, regardless of the topic at hand. "What happened to your brother, Luffy?"

Breathing out through his nose, he chuckles lowly. "You're asking this _now_?"

"You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to."

"It's okay." You try very hard to keep your breathing even, expecting the worst. You ought to be there for him, after he was there for you, but maybe this is the best you can do, _for now_. "He died in a car fire. The car went out of his control—manufacturing error—and he got burned alive. Kind of a brutal way to go, you know?" Luffy bravely didn't even sniffle, but you can hear the regret in his voice. "He was great. I wish you could've met him."

"Yeah, me too." Without waiting an instant, you rush out more information. "My family was…not so great. It was just…really awful. I'll tell you all about it. Like, soon. Once I can figure out all the shit in my head with my therapist. But I'll tell you in person, and when I do, you sure as hell better listen."

Luffy laughs. "Okay."

/ /

At the four-months-of-being-clean mark, you have a check in with your therapist, who congratulates you. You have kendo immediately afterwards, so you smile, hurrying out of the office, and meet Zoro there for practice.

Once you leave for the evening, sweaty but refreshed, you jog home lightly and make a phone call you have been waiting to make for some time now.

"Hey Luffy," you say, completely in control of yourself, for the first time in ages. "You should come to my place for dinner. I've got some stuff to tell you."

You're ready for the complaints and the laughter, and everything that comes with being friends with Luffy, who is true to himself if nothing else, but mostly you're just happy that you _are_ ready, and that you can practically hear Luffy smile back at you through the phone.

_You sound just fine, _Luffy laughs through the line, and you laugh back because for once, you really, _genuinely_ agree.


End file.
